“Sir!” Maria Zoë was starting to lose her temper. “My husband is in all probability dead. My son John is therefore Lord of Ibelin, Ramla, and Mirabel! He and his younger brother and sisters cannot simply be abandoned to the care of a sergeant—no matter how loyal or courageous! Either I go to my children, or they must be brought to me!”
“My lady! My lady!” The voice surprised both Sir Constantine and Maria Zoë. It was Georgios. Neither of them knew when the youth had come into the hall, but a strange man in a filthy aketon, baggy hose, and an unshaved and haggard face was standing next to him.
Sir Constantine frowned at the groom and started to rebuke him, but Maria Zoë laid a hand on his sleeve. She was relieved at the interruption, as it gave her time to think and collect her arguments and her nerves. To Georgios she asked, “What is it?”
“This man!” Georgios exclaimed excitedly, indicating his companion. “He was at the battle!”
“Personally?” Sir Constantine asked skeptically, his eyes looking the man suspiciously up and down. Stocky but with massive shoulders, he had a short sword at his left hip and a bow slung over his back.
“Yes!” Georgios assured the knight, but it was the man himself who answered steadily, “I’m a master mason, sir, from Nazareth. I have my workshop and my family there. I mustered with the army at Acre and marched first to Sephorie and then on to the hills just before Hattin, above Tiberias.”
“Under whose command?” Sir Constantine asked sharply.
“The Lord of Nazareth, of course.”
“And where is he now?” Sir Constantine wanted to know.
The man shrugged. “I presume he is a captive.”
“You presume? Presume? When did you run away, abandoning him?”
“Who abandoned whom?” the mason shot back. “The King ordered us to march in the heat of summer, across arid countryside where we had nothing to drink. Even the springs of Tourran were poisoned! And he led us straight into a trap. We were surrounded by Saracens who mocked us by pouring water on the ground. Then they set fires that drove us mad with smoke in our eyes and throats and forced us forward into their arrows and spears. They were all around us, shooting at us and howling out their chants and curses! And the lords? They did nothing! Just sat there, letting us die in their defense! The Count of Tripoli finally broke out, but he cut his way out to the north, and none of us were close enough to follow him. We were on the southern hill surrounding the bishops and monks with the True Cross. At least up there we were out of range of their arrows, but the King and lords kept ordering us to come down and protect them! Why?” he demanded defiantly of Sir Constantine.
Then abruptly he turned and looked directly at Maria Zoë. “Your husband, madame, was the only one who gave us a thought. He tried to kill Salah ad-Din, but when he failed, he turned east and led his knights across in front of us. He broke a hole in the Saracen encirclement right at the foot of the hill. Any of us with an ounce of strength followed him.”
“My lord husband broke out of the encirclement?” Maria Zoë asked, so anxiously that she half lifted herself out of her chair in tension.
“Yes, madame. He not only led us out, he saw to the wounded and organized us into a fighting unit again.”
“Dear God!” Maria Zoë gasped, crossing herself and muttering thanks to Christ, Mary, and St. George.
Sir Constantine looked at her a little askance. He still didn’t fully believe this man or his story. He suspected he’d concocted the whole thing to win Maria Zoë’s trust and then cheat her in some way. “And where is the Lord of Ibelin while you stand here before his lady?” he asked the stranger sharply.
“He is probably in Tyre by now,” the man answered evenly. “We made first for Safed, and there we learned that Salah ad-Din was taking his army straight to Acre. In fact, the Count of Edessa had already agreed to surrender Acre—”
“What?” Maria Zoë and Sir Constantine exclaimed in unison.
“Yes,” the mason answered steadily and confidently. “The Queen’s uncle promised to deliver Acre in exchange for his own life and the retention of his treasure. The citizens of Acre started burning the city, preferring to see it ruined than fall intact into Saracen hands, but then Salah ad-Din offered them all their freedom and movable goods in exchange for the city—”
“It is just as I feared, my lady,” Sir Constantine broke in. “Salah ad-Din has cut the Kingdom in half. We must make for Jerusalem at once—”
Maria Zoë ignored him and focused on the mason. “What of my husband? Why is it you are here, but my husband is not?”
“The enemy controls the land between Tiberias and Acre, madame. With just three thousand men, there was no way my lord of Ibelin could have broken through. He had to take the small force he had to the most defensible city north of Acre, and that is Tyre. Tyre they will be able to garrison and hold. But my family was in Nazareth and I chose not to go with them. By darkness I slipped through the Saracen lines and made for Nazareth, reaching it just hours before it was occupied by Salah ad-Din’s men. I barely escaped with my wife and two babies.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Jerusalem, of course.”
“What did I tell you?” Sir Constantine told his lady.
Maria Zoë ignored him. She held out her hand to the mason. “Go with God, good man. We will not delay you any longer.”
The mason bowed to Maria Zoë. “And may the Lord be with you and with your lord husband, madame. He is more fit to be King than Lusignan!”
Sir Constantine frowned at that, but he held his tongue. The man turned and hastened out of the hall, clearly in a hurry to be on his way, but to Sir Constantine’s annoyance Georgios did not go with him. He was on the brink of dismissing the presumptuous groom when Georgios forestalled him by speaking up.
“My lady, let me go!” he pleaded.
“Of course, Georgios,” Maria Zoë replied absently. “You will want to see to your mother’s safety. No one will keep you here.”
“No, my lady. I meant, let me go to Ibelin.”
“Ibelin?”
“Yes. When I interrupted, you were saying that either you would go to your children or they must be brought to you. Let me go to Ibelin and bring them to Jerusalem.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—” Sir Constantine started, but Maria Zoë silenced her with a hand on his arm. Georgios had been trained at arms by one of the finest knights in Christendom. He was a good rider, and he spoke Greek, French, and the usual survival Arabic of the natives. Most important, he had been raised in circumstances that had taught him humility. Georgios was the kind of young man who could appear and act insignificant, even dumb, if he ran into Saracen patrols. He therefore stood a chance of actually reaching Ibelin. Once there, it would be up to Shoreham and the garrison to get her children to safety. If Salah ad-Din did concentrate his army to take the coastal cities, then Shoreham would surely be able to bring the children through to Jerusalem. If instead the Sultan turned on the Holy City, then Shoreham could be trusted to take the children to Ascalon or Jaffa, whichever he thought safer.
She nodded. “Yes, Georgios. Take the best horse in the stables and a remount as well, in case he goes lame. While you prepare to depart, I’ll write a letter for Master Shoreham and Father Angelus telling them we have withdrawn to Jerusalem. The most important thing is the safety of the children, Georgios, but to the extent possible, we should remove everything of value from Ibelin as well. If we abandon it, we will lose everything in it—things we may later need to survive.” She turned to Sir Constantine. “The same goes for what we have here. Prepare our departure in such a way that our greatest valuables are packed with our riding horses. Place things of lesser value on packhorses, and things of least value on carts. That way we can jettison carts and packhorses successively, if necessary, and still salvage something.”
Sir Constantine smiled faintly at this order; his lady’s hard-headed practicality was something he admired, even if it sometimes took him by
surprise.
Jerusalem, July 16, 1187
The city was flooded with refugees. Some said as many as twenty thousand people had been admitted at the gates in the last fortnight, and there was no end in sight. Sister Adela did not particularly care. An obsession with numbers detracted from the humanity of each individual—and she tried to treat each patient, one at a time, as one of Christ’s children.
On her arrival from Nablus, Sister Adela had been called immediately to the Grand Hospitaller, the most senior surviving officer of the Order. He had entrusted her with the command of the two women’s wards in the Hospital of Jerusalem. Her predecessor, he explained, had been frail and ailing for some time, and the flood of refugees following Hattin had overwhelmed her. She had taken to her bed and refused any food, dying within three days.
This left Sister Adela with the responsibility for not only the nearly 400 women and 42 sisters she had brought with her from Nablus, but also the Jerusalem women’s wards—housing some 300 women with infectious diseases, and another 400 women suffering from non-contagious illnesses and a variety of injuries, along with the more than 200 sisters, both lay and clerical, that made up the female staff of the Hospital in Jerusalem.
The number of patients suffering from broken bones, twisted ankles, burns, and dangerously deep cuts had exploded with the refugee population. As a result, Sister Adela felt compelled to be very strict about who could occupy a bed. Too many women liked to spend a few nights at the hospital for the solid meals they got—and for the break from husbands and children. Under the circumstances, however, she couldn’t afford to have women taking up beds if they didn’t absolutely need them.
The situation was even worse in the men’s wards. There were scores of men who had arrived after harrowing skirmishes with Saracen patrols. The Saracens appeared to be everywhere at once, but Sister Adela supposed that was just because they heard about where they were, not where they weren’t. Still, there was little doubt that the roads were becoming increasingly dangerous. Christians were safe only if they had strong walls around them—and not necessarily even then, as the fall of Acre, Toron, and most recently Sidon showed. To be sure, these cities had surrendered to avoid a futile defense that could only end in slaughter, sack, and slavery. By surrendering their cities, the citizens saved their lives, their freedom, and their movable goods, but for what? To be refugees and strangers somewhere else? Where?
Tyre was the only city on the coast of the Kingdom north of Acre that had successfully defied Salah ad-Din—and that was because the Barons of Sidon and Ibelin had brought the fighting men they’d led out of the trap at Hattin there and had taken over command of the defense. An estimated three thousand fighting men and three hundred knights was a credible defense. One could not say the same about Jerusalem, Sister Adela noted.
As in Nablus, Sister Adela was considered an officer of the Hospital, and as such was included in the daily meetings with the Grand Hospitaller. He was a priest, as were the next most senior officers, the Treasurer and the Quartermaster. There was no Knight of the Hospital in all Jerusalem, and the situation of the Knights Templar was worse. The Templars were a fighting order without a large hospital function, and all their senior officers had been with Master de Ridefort. Not one had been seen or heard from since July 4. There were, of course, still Templar garrisons at various castles, but those few knights in command could not possibly leave their posts; their most urgent mission was to hold the castles entrusted them until reinforcements could arrive from the West. That, Sister Adela knew, could take a year or two. Meanwhile, in Jerusalem there was not a single Hospitaller or Templar Knight, nor even a senior sergeant, who could speak with authority and command respect.
So Jerusalem was on its own, under the command of Queen Sibylla and the Patriarch. Not the most confidence-inspiring duo. The former was foolish and egotistical, the latter corrupt and licentious. Neither had the slightest military experience. The leading citizens, the guild masters, and the representatives of the communes of Pisa, Genoa, and Venice had therefore formed an ad hoc committee intent on organizing the defense of Jerusalem, but they were constantly squabbling among themselves, their jealousies spilling over into every debate about command structures, provisioning, and strategy. Sister Adela sighed and wondered if men would ever learn.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the breathless voice of Sister Patricia running between the beds from the entranceway. “Sister Adela! Sister Adela!”
Sister Adela could still remember the day Sister Patricia had arrived at Jaffa from Ireland. Of the five women who’d come ashore that day, she alone had shown a genuine vocation for looking after the sick. She was intelligent and diligent, and indifferent to hardship without reveling in it. She had the kind of practical faith in God that did not entail constant prayer and undue penance. Best of all, Sister Patricia was the kind of sister who spread cheer and optimism rather than fear and doubt. This display of distress was quite out of character and required a sharp rebuke.
“Shhh!” Sister Adela admonished sharply, “and stop running! You are disturbing the patients and spreading alarm!”
“Sister Adela,” Sister Patricia repeated breathlessly as she slowed her pace and stopped before her superior. “A couple has just arrived with almost a hundred children!”
“A hundred children?” Sister Adela asked in obvious disbelief.
“Abandoned children! They must have been in an orphanage, but they had been left without any oversight or food—locked in a cellar—apparently for days.”
“Dear God,” Sister Adela whispered. “Take me to them.”
Sister Patricia led the way out of the ward and across the cobbled courtyard to the southern entrance of the hospital complex. Here lay brothers screened all people seeking admittance, sending them one way or another based on the nature of their needs. As Sister Adela approached, the lay brothers gestured to an elderly couple just inside the door. The old woman was holding an infant far too young to be her own, while the man had a little boy by the hand.
“I am the Head Sister,” Sister Adela introduced herself, Patricia at her heels.
“God bless you, sister,” the man opened. “My name is Nicolas, and this is my wife Anne. I owned a cooperage near Qasr, east of the Dead Sea. On our way to seek refuge here, we came upon these children—they were locked in a cellar, with no one looking after them. They would all have starved to death, if we hadn’t freed them!” As he spoke he opened the door to the street and gestured.
Sister Adela gasped. Sister Patricia had not been exaggerating. Clustered in the street outside, blocking the road entirely, were scores and scores of children. They were filthy, ragged, bony, and too dazed and exhausted to do more than stare at her. Children that looked no more than seven or eight were holding smaller children, while half the children seemed to be clinging to crutches. They had to be from an orphanage, but what had become of the nuns and lay sisters who should have been looking after them?
Her eyes scanned the pitiful herd of children again, and confirmed her fears. Not one of them was older than ten or eleven. In all probability, Saracen slavers had taken away the nuns and any girl old enough for a harem or brothel and any boy old enough to work, but left the rest to their fate.
Nicolas was still speaking. “They must have been locked up for at least a day, and the compound had been plundered, too. All the storerooms had been broken open, the chests and cupboards smashed, even the bedding stripped off the beds.”
Sister Adela nodded knowingly. “Thank you both for your Christian charity and for bringing them to us. We will look after them from now on.”
As the couple departed, Sister Adela turned to Sister Patricia. “We’re going to have to find someplace to put these children, but first they need to been cleaned up and fed.”
Sister Patricia gazed at her superior in despair. “We’re already bursting at the seams. How can we look after a hundred orphans as well?”
“Would you leave them in the streets, sister?
” Sister Adela snapped back. “Go at once to the Grand Hospitaller and tell him what we have here!” Sister Adela ordered, before turning and gesturing for the children to come inside.
As they shuffled past, Adela looked for one who looked older, brighter, or more alert than the others. Her eyes settled on a girl carrying an infant in her arms. “Child! Come here! What is your name?”
The girl stopped and stared at her, but did not come closer. Adela was beginning to think she either didn’t understand or was too frightened to speak when she at last announced, “Mary.”
Sister Adela sighed with relief. “Come here!” she ordered again, and the girl shuffled forward to stand before her warily. Sister Adela bent down to ask her gently but firmly, “Mary, can you tell me what happened?”
“Men killed Peter, Father Francis, Cook, and Mother Beatrice, and the other sisters ran away,” Mary told Sister Adela solemnly.
“Ran away?” Sister Adela asked, scandalized.
Mary nodded solemnly. “The men chased them and they ran away.”
Telling herself not to judge women facing rape and slavery, Adela focused on the issue at hand: “Did the Saracens harm you or the other children?”
Mary shook her head. “Not Saracens. Franks.”
“I know you’re Franks, but the Saracens, the men who—who killed your priest and frightened the sisters away, did they harm you or any of the other children?”
“They weren’t Saracen!” Mary insisted. “They were Franks! That’s why Peter let them in—but then they killed him and Cook and robbed us of everything.”
Sister Adela felt the hand of fear clutch at her heart and her blood ran cold as she realized that, with the King and all his nobles in captivity, law and order was breaking down across the Kingdom.
Jerusalem, July 18, 1187
“The Patriarch, madame,” said the pageboy solemnly, “has sent a priest requesting an audience.”
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